Closely Akin to Murder by Joan Hess Page B

in front of the hotel, he added, “Nine o’clock, then?”
    I nodded, then climbed out of the car and left him to imagine the wrath that would be rained down on him by his ursine brother-in-law. As I went past the bellman’s desk, I noticed that he was staring at me with an oddly curious expression. Wondering if Caron had done something to garner the animosity of the staff, I hurried toward the elevators.
    â€œSeñora Claire Malloy?” barked a voice.
    I halted and turned around, but instead of an antagonistic hotel manager, I found myself confronting a policeman in a dark blue shirt and badge. The gun at hisside looked more appropriate to a battlefield than the lobby of an expensive hotel.
    â€œYes?” I said warily, spotting his colleague nearby.
    â€œYou come with us,” he said, his accent so thick that I could barely understand him.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou come with us.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said as I assessed the distance to the elevators. The doors of one of them slid open, and two white-haired men in garish print shirts and shorts emerged, took in the scene, and scampered toward the bar like terrified bunnies. Before I could make my move, the doors slid closed. “I don’t know what this is about, and I’m not going anywhere until I do.”
    He placed his hand on the holster of his weapon. “You come with us.”
    â€œNo,” I said, perhaps a bit shrilly. “Since that’s how one says it in Spanish as well as English, you should have no difficulty understanding it.”
    â€œYou are under arrest, Señora. You come with us.”
    â€œUnder arrest for what? I haven’t done anything the slightest bit illegal. I wasn’t even driving a car, so you can’t try to frame me for a traffic violation.”
    â€œYou come with us.”
    The menace in his tone was getting harder and harder to overlook, and the second officer was edging toward me. The bartender, waiters, and customers were all watching with wonderment, as were the incoming guests at the front desk. I was unfamiliar with Mexican police procedure, but I wasn’t confident I wouldn’t be shot in the back if I fled.
    I attempted a pinched smile. “Please explain what this is about, Señor. I’m sure there’s been a mistake, and I prefer to clear it up right here.”
    â€œSeñora Malloy!” called Manuel as he hurried across the lobby. “The bellman says the police . . .” He caught sight of my companions and froze in midstep.
    â€œAre looking for me?” I suggested, so relieved to see him that I wanted to kiss his cheek. “As you can see, they’ve found me, but we’re having a tiny problem communicating. Ask him what’s wrong.”
    Manuel reluctantly joined us and began a low, incomprehensible exchange with the officer. The other joined in with much gesturing in my direction. Terrified that something had happened to Caron, I struggled to catch pertinent words, but they were all speaking so rapidly that only one made sense:
homicidio
.
    I grabbed Manuel’s arm. “What are they saying? Has someone been killed? Is my daughter all right? Damn it, what’s going on, Manuel?”
    â€œIt does not concern the señorita. These officers want to question you about a homicide that took place today.”
    â€œMe?” I said numbly. “Who was murdered?”
    â€œErnesto Santiago. He was found in the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas, with his throat slashed.”
    â€œI’ve never even seen him. Did you tell them that?”
    He fluttered his hands. “Yes, but they insist you come with them to the
Ministerio Público
—the police headquarters. I do not know what to do, Señora. My brother-in-law will be so angry that he will slash my throat. This is a
pesadilla
, a nightmare. Why did I give up my job as a cabin steward? The tips were very good, and I had the